The weather really put the "chill" in Chiller Theatre Oct. 26-28: the cold & wind were enough to send witches & wizards through the air without benefit
of brooms. However, it was toasty (and many people were toasted) inside, where we had the pleasure of people -watching, chatting with rockers, actors & fanatics of every stripe, and eating too much of the free candy that everyone put out in bowls to entice you to their booths.

I got there early Friday to catch up with the Divine Ms. C, and hang out with David Snowden, a longtime friend, glimpse Mara Fox as she streaked around (no, not actually naked, just FAST) setting things up for the appearances by Cherie, Sandy West and Ian Mitchell. Rocketmaster dude Scott provided wry commentary and quizzical looks.

I came in costume, as an adult (most people spotted me as a fake right away).

However, there were much more scary apparitions hanging about, some with
live familiars (one guy had a black cat riding his shoulder). There were also many clever variations on vampires, parasites, bloody punks and the largest collection of Harry Potter -t-shirt-wearing people I've yet seen. 

I've met and interviewed Cherie before, and she's always gracious about saying hello and catching up and inquiring about one's family (in fact she even offered me her cell phone and told me to get my Better Half over to the convention). I'd only met Sandy briefly before, but she was ready to hang, and we discussed music, writing, and drummers we know.

I'd never been to this convention, and it was great fun to wander around and scope the merch, and talk with the people selling it, as well as playing "spot the celebs." There was a tent next to the Sheraton Meadowlands in which most of the tv/sci-fi personalities were greeting fans and signing autographs. We did a lap of the tent (which was brisk enough inside, even with heaters, that many of the celebs were wearing scarves, gloves & hats) and for myself, I was thrilled to see June Lockhart and Angela Cartwright from Lost in Space (Dr. Smith, aka Jonathan Harris, presumably being a bit too brittle for the cold, was signing autographs inside). I almost swooned when I spotted Marina Sirtis (Star Trek: Next Generation), and think I scored points by identifying Robert Picardo as Dr. Dick Richard from China Beach, rather than the holographic doctor from Star Trek: Voyager. 

We returned indoors to see what was up with our rockers in residence, and meet Ian Mitchell, with whom I lost points when I asked him what part of Scotland he was from (BAD Kathleen... that's what websites are for!) Sandy & Cherie & Ian were in good spirits, welcoming the rapidly swelling trickle of fans (at one point, when I crossed the lobby, there were several hundred people in line waiting to buy tickets). Some of them were quite familiar with The Runaways, bringing their cherished vinyl for autographs, while others were willing to be converted. 

Their neighbors on either side were the producers of an indie flick called "Satan's Menagerie," which played a trailer with a metal riff over and over and over and.... and on the other side was fantasy artists' model Stacy E. Walker, who was friendly and approachable. I noticed that the participants at Chiller fell into two categories, those who were having fun with the whole thing, and don't take themselves too seriously, and those who were there, it seemed, because somebody met their price, or they had a mortgage payment, or kids' college tuition. Fortunately, most of them were of the glad-to-be-there variety, and seemed to enjoy chatting with fans. Sandy frequently came out from behind the table to greet people; enthusiastically shaking their hands and hugging them, making each one feel special. Cherie posed for myriad photos, gave away merch (much to Mara's consternation) and never lost her sense of humor.

Also in the room was a former Playmate (I didn't catch her name) who was signing various photos of herself, both clothed & unclothed. I wasn't sure what Playboy models had to do with horror but it began to make sense as fanboys of all ages (some of whom actually resembled Comic Book Store Guy on the Simpsons) who didn't seem do be getting any in this astral plane were willing to fork over $20 or so to stand next to someone they'd no doubt enjoyed many times on the page and have her personally autograph a picture of her genitals.

We departed before the serious partying because we had a bus to catch, and we missed it anyway, and cabbed it with several other disgruntled fans, to the next town over, where the bus was still running. 

We were happy to return the next day, and catch up with other friends and continue to discover the delights of Spinal Tap action figures, Lord of the Rings calendars, and even more folks in serious costumes. We had to split before the musical performance to catch another friend performing in downtown NYC. As we came through the Holland Tunnel, we got a whiff of a downtown that is still burning, and the real horror of what had happened a few weeks before overtook us. We wished that the fake blood & gore in Jersey was the only chilling thing in the area. You used to be able to see the World Trade Center towers from the Meadowlands, and as we crossed over to Jersey, and looked back, I kept feeling the missing part of the skyline like a phantom limb.

We were ready to rock on Sunday, and headed back to Jersey: a lot of dealers left early, and there was last-minute bargaining and giveaways by dealers
who didn't want to take everything home. Joan Jett's manager, Kenny Laguna, turned up fresh from the Blackhearts' tour for deployed troops. Stacey Walker looked around for people to give her last bit of candy to, and bent over to hold the bowl out to a small boy. Her left nipple escaped her bustier, and the boy got a double treat. She tucked her nipple back in, and started to pack up the rest of her display. (NO! I mean the stuff she had on the TABLE!)